


Fake Breasts and True Love

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Longings [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Althea is a great PA, Dinner Party, F/F, F/M, Gen, Just don't call him Her Majesty, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Mycroft is the Ice Man, Other, Psychotherapy, Some call him the Ice Queen, Texting, cross dressing, mentions of past alcohol abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-09 01:03:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10400268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Molly and Mycroft work out expectations for leisure time. Mycroft has something on his mind. Sherlock works on his list for Ella. John emails a lot & he and Harry work on mending their relationship. Mrs. Hudson makes a new friend.





	

          Molly’s own curiosity, her need to find answers, to seek out the unknown, had led her from being a practicing doctor, to the field of pathology. It was, in the end, an excellent fit. For all that she liked people, she was undeniably awkward and self-effacing with the general population, and while she had a loving nature and a desire to help other people, she was not really a healer.

          At times it could be very frustrating. Her instinct was to heal those she loved, in one form or fashion. And if she couldn’t heal, then she wanted to offer comfort. Psychology was not her forte, not at all, but she knew enough—was empathetic enough—to know that for whatever reasons (some of which she knew, or guessed at) Mycroft had hurts and neurosis too deep to be completely warmed even by love. She did her best, gave him more than one hundred percent of her love, and always, always tried to remain patient when he was being an arse, when he tried to compartmentalize her so he could cope with whatever new crisis had arisen.

          Going in, neither of them had thought it would be easy. But neither had she realized just how hard it would be, some days, to love Mycroft Holmes. The hardest part was that he almost seemed to fight the intimacy at times, pushing her away if they drew to close.

          Public displays were not acceptable, although he had unbent enough to accept hugs, hand holding and even, upon occasion, a chaste peck, if they were in 221B. Dates which took them out of the comfort of his home or hers were orchestrated with much advance planning, and in public they behaved more like friendly acquaintances than anything else.

          Molly was okay with this. Really, she was. Mostly. Sometimes she just wanted to tuck her hand in the back pocket of his trousers as they walked down the street, and point out things and stop to kiss; to spontaneously go to a film and hold hands and kiss in the flickering darkness. Last minute weekends away were impossible, dinner parties a non-starter, and he had yet to invite her to one of the posh parties he attended as part of his job.

          Trying not to take it personally was easier some days than others. To be fair, Mycroft had warned her from the beginning that he was a difficult man, that his schedule was tight, his job took precedence and that he wouldn’t ever be like a normal boyfriend. All of that was true.

          But it wasn’t the only truth; another truth was that when they were together—unless he was called away by an emergency—Mycroft brought his full attention to bear on her. This was not only flattering; it was incredibly sexy, as he was a patient and intense man. Even their games of Scrabble had an element of seduction about them. They spent more time talking to one another than she was accustomed to, and as a consequence grew closer.

          Learning to be more restrained, more patient, had taught Molly the value of her own appeal, her own worth. Dating Mycroft had increased her self-confidence, and had actually given her the ambition to spend more time on her professional accomplishments as well. In return, she had imparted to him the joy of relaxation, playfulness, and shown him that there was value to be had in something that gave no leverage, no professional or monetary return.

          What might have been an uneven relationship developed into a beneficial and pleasing partnership, and Molly was grateful that they had both had the courage to reach for more. That they had poured effort into making their relationship a success.

          Sometimes, however, she would have liked it if Mycroft were the type of man to put on jeans and trainers, show up unexpectedly, and take her out for fish and chips. Unscheduled outings were so rare as to be nonexistent. Molly found herself occasionally feeling resentment.

          Following their conversation about having a baby, Molly realized that Mycroft was surprisingly open to supporting something she might want. Even if it would mean a change of lifestyle for him.

          Maybe they hadn’t gone out more, been more open as a couple, had more casual dinners and carefree nights at the cinema because she hadn’t made her wants known? Hadn’t she, after all, fallen too easily into Mycroft’s matter-of-fact subterfuge? It looked like it was time to talk about what she wanted.

 

******

 

**_list for Ella_ **

**_ happiness/reasons for sobriety _ **

**_the Work_ **

**_~~John~~ _ ** **_growing old with John (should this have come first?)_ **

**_~~Watson~~ _ ** **_~~watching~~ ~~helping~~ watching Watson grow up_ **

**_~~twitting Mycroft (to do: mention the two pounds he put on)~~ _ **

**_nope, keeping that one_ **

**_composing music_ **

**_eventual retirement to country cottage, keep bees, write case study of modern criminals for posterity_ **

**_MEMO- talk to John re the above plan_ **

**_who will visit Eurus when Mummy & Father are gone?_ **

**_Mrs. Hudson is ~~quieter~~ happier when I abstain_ **

**_Memories of JOHN & WATSON & everything much easier to commit to mind palace if not high_ **

**_No tiresome rehab!_ **

**_John & Watson-always_ **

****

**_TO DO LIST_ **

**_Compose another lullaby for Watson, also finish John’s song_ **

**_Discuss adoption with John (too soon?)_ **

**_Discuss retirement/bees/et al with John_ **

**_Buy more pants (John likes black Italian briefs)_ **

**_Refresh emergency stash of cigarettes_ **

**_Baby proof lounge/office/lab! (WATSON IS AN ESCAPE ARTIST)_ **

**_New Erlenmeyer flask (WATSON IS A MENACE!)_ **

**_Slides, fixative, pipettes_ **

**_Lube ~~—~~ ~~unflavored~~  flavored—experiment!_ **

**_SHERRINFORD, 11AM, TUESDAY—CALL MYC_ **

**_Red shirt to cleaners—John should pay as responsible for missing buttons_ **

**_Tea bags, milk, biscuits, ~~oranges~~ , orange marmalade, shampoo, child locks, outlet covers, safety gates (2?)_ **

****

******

 

          There was nothing quite like the initial thrill of meeting someone new. The mystery of what the future had in store, the delightful feeling in the tum when you thought about that special person. Anticipation as to the next meeting. Martha hummed as she did a quick step through her morning chores. She was to meet her new gentleman caller for lunch and she wanted plenty of time to primp.

          _Some_ foolish young men might make noises that at nearly seventy-two she was past it, and ought to hang up her garter belt. They could stuff it. Her weekly trysts with dear Mr. Chatterjee were delightful, but not really enough—not satisfying in more than a brief, transitory way. He was an able lover, but at sixty-eight he wasn’t up for it as often as she would like, and despite his numerous wives, not a very imaginative man.

          She’d always been a one for adventure, pushing the line. From the age of fourteen to seventeen, when she’d left home, she’d hardly been able to sit properly at all. All those paddlings her ma had given her for flirting and running wild and acting too fast had given her a semi-permanent callous. Not that it had stopped her—not by a mile!

          Martha had run headlong into one scrape after another for most of her twenties, had settled down a bit in her thirties (by which she meant that she had only gotten arrested once or twice) and after finding a lovely fancy man named Roger, she had given up the exotic dancing and settled for a bit. But then Roger died and his wife insisted she vacate her dear penthouse flat, and Martha had gone looking for work. Which was when she ended up in a series of dull and ill-paying temp jobs, culminating in a short-lived stint as nanny to Sherlock Holmes.

          One thing you could commend the Holmes men on, they were never dull. Not even as lads.

          Then of course had come her disastrous—but very exciting!—marriage to the late Mr. Hudson, the sod. Now there was a man to keep you on your toes—she had never known if he was going to walk through the door loaded with diamonds or just loaded; half the time he’d pin her against the wall and they’d have a real knee-trembler. The other half he’d pin her against the wall and accuse her of infidelity. She might have slipped once or twice, but he had small room to point fingers!

          Florida had been nice, especially once Sherlock helped put the mister away on a capital murder charge. But after a time she got tired of the millionaire lifestyle and longed for good old Blighty. Back she had moved, and after a bit of searching, her estate agent had found her the perfect property, nicely central. If she had wanted to settle into retirement she would have gone to molder in the country and join a garden club. Instead she had decided to rent out to Sherlock, fresh out of rehab and looking for a flat.

          He and dear John certainly kept the pot stirred briskly. Bless.

          All that wasn’t enough though, was it? No. Emphatically. Which is why she had her poker games and her little jaunts to the Continent to Monte Carlo, and a myriad of little enjoyments. For the really dull times she had a nip of gin and one of her herbal soothers.

          The best cure for boredom, as she had discovered at age fifteen in her father’s garden shed with the neighbor boy, was a man. A good bit of frolic passed the time nicely. Only it wasn’t as easy nowadays to find a man with stamina, intellect and wit who wasn’t as dull as potatoes, or house-bound.

          At John and Sherlock’s party for dear Rosie there had been the usual crew, including the elder Holmes (as lovely and odd as of old, and definitely still having it on). There had been one unfamiliar face there, an attractive older woman in a gorgeously maintained vintage Hattie Carnegie suit and a tilted-brim hat circa 1939. She was slim, barely of medium height in her elegant heels, and so perfectly put together that Martha had felt underdressed in her own quite attractive frock.

          She turned out to be he. Uncle Rudy, Mycroft had introduced smoothly, without a flicker of an eyelash. While Martha had limited dealings with the elder Holmes brother, and she wasn’t as fond of him as she was of Sherlock, nevertheless Martha had a bit of a soft spot for him for how devoted he was to Sherlock. He had risen further in her estimation at the party as he introduced his uncle to her.

          Eventually they were alone and Martha had asked Rudy, “Cross dresser or um, what’s it called, transgender?” Her eager question seemed to throw him/her, but then the sky blue eyes crinkled and the rose pink lips smiled and in a voice that fell somewhere between a man and a woman’s register, he answered. “Cross dresser. I love putting on beautiful clothes in luxurious fabrics, and playing with cosmetics and jewelry. As I’ve grown older I took a leaf from the younger generation’s book and embraced wearing them in public.”

          “Well when you look this good, someone needs to see it!” Martha enthused, rubbing the material of his sleeve between her thumb and forefinger. Catching sight of the diamond cocktail ring on one well-maintained hand, she caught his fingers in hers to bring it closer, as she didn’t have her glasses on. “How beautiful!”

          “Thank you,” Rudy had said a bit flustered, and Martha suddenly realized that she was holding his hand and that a sparkling, fizzing attraction was buzzing along her nerve endings. Within five minutes they had a lunch date for the following Thursday. She needed the intervening time to find the perfect dress at the shops, as she was hardly going to be outshone by her date.

 

******

 

TO: [h.watson@citycenterfinance.co.uk](mailto:h.watson@citycenterfinance.co.uk)

FROM: [jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk](mailto:jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk)

SUBJECT: Dinner?

 

Hey,

      For some reason my partner has gotten it into his head that we need to throw a dinner party. No idea why, but he’s insisting. It’s to be the 19th, dinner at eight but show up early so you can visit with your niece before she goes to bed. We’ll have plenty of non-alcoholic drinks available.

   Oh, and do you have any photo albums from our childhood? I threw mine away in a fit of anger years back and am regretting it now. I wanted to make copies…Rosie will want to see her ancestors one day.

   You’re welcome to bring a date by the way. Seeing anyone?

 

Your big brother

 

TO: [jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk](mailto:jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk)

FROM: [h.watson@citycenterfinance.co.uk](mailto:h.watson@citycenterfinance.co.uk)

SUBJECT: RE: Dinner?

 

 

John,

    Love to come to dinner, will try for six-thirty if that’s not too early? No date, still not seeing anyone but I am getting desperate for a shag. Don’t happen to know any attractive, single lesbians, do you? Can I bring anything to dinner besides my sparkling personality and the family snaps?

 

Signed, the bratty younger sister

 

TO: [wssholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk](mailto:wssholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk)

FROM: [jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk](mailto:jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk)

SUBJECT: Your face

 

I miss it. So does Rosie. Come home soon, so I can kiss you properly. In the meantime… XOXOXO

John

****

TO: [hwatson@citycenterfinance.co.uk](mailto:hwatson@citycenterfinance.co.uk)

FROM: [jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk](mailto:jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk)

SUBJECT: Re: RE: Dinner?

 

Harry,

Actually there is a dishy brunette that has been invited but is yet to RSVP. I’ll introduce you. Be warned, she might as well be a Holmes. Just the snaps. We’re having it catered. Don’t want to poison the general populace.

John

 

TO: [jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk](mailto:jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk)

FROM: [h.watson@citycenterfinance.co.uk](mailto:h.watson@citycenterfinance.co.uk)

SUBJECT: RE: Re: Re: Dinner?

 

John,

Thank God as I still recall the time you made soup for me when I was sick. I couldn’t leave the toilet for a week.

I love dishy brunettes. I suppose I can stomach a Holmesesque female. At least the conversation won’t be dull!

 

Harriet

 

TO: [jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk](mailto:jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk)

FROM: [wssholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk](mailto:wssholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk)

SUBJECT: RE: Your face

 

John, I miss you & Watson both. Will return soonest. Characters on a screen can never replace your lips.

SH

 

TO: [wssholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk](mailto:wssholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk)

FROM: [jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk](mailto:jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk)

SUBJECT: Re: RE: Your face

 

What’s wrong?

 

TO: [jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk](mailto:jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk)

FROM: [wssholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk](mailto:wssholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk)

SUBJECT: RE: Re: RE: Your face

 

Sherrinford is …bleak. The psychiatric evaluation of Eurus is nearly complete, and I may be able to return tomorrow evening instead of the following day. This place is cold, and gray and lonely and I miss you in my bones. Text me a picture of Watson, will you?

 

John: I miss you too, love. It feels like three weeks, not three days, since I saw you last.

John: Rosie has been crying for Papa & I’ve played the .mp3 file you made for her over & over.

John: It comforts me too.

John: [attachment loading]

Sherlock: Tomorrow. I will make certain I am home tomorrow.

Sherlock: Tell Watson that Papa misses her too. I wish the connection was good enough to Skype

Sherlock: Picture received. Our daughter is clearly the best looking child on Earth.

John: Even covered in paste and cat hair?

Sherlock: Even then.

John: We love you. Come home.

Sherlock: I love you. Goodnight, John.

John: Goodnight XOXOXO

 

******

 

          Exhausted was too flat a word to describe his feelings. Weary. Relieved. Dejected. Hopeful. Hopeless. Lonely.

          Mycroft closed his eyes to block out the light, hoping to lessen the severity of the migraine he was fighting. Work had called him away for part of the past three days, but nonetheless he was aching with the pull of negative emotions that lapped at his chin. Sherlock had stayed all three days, intent on making sure that Eurus didn’t try to pull any of her old tricks on the new head of psychiatry at Sherrinford, who was conducting a full-length evaluation.

          Frankly, Mycroft feared for Sherlock’s mental health after three days in that place. If the surroundings were not grim enough, there was the fact that the memories of their torment during Eurus’ mind-games a few years back threatened to overwhelm if one stood still long enough. Add to it that the stress of watching her fail to react to three days of interaction was enough to break one’s heart.

          Returning home late Thursday night, Mycroft wished fervently to take a shower and sink into solitude, while at the same time he was aware that he was longing to see Molly. It felt wrong, to think of cleansing his dark soul by bathing in her light, but he was fully aware that he was not an honorable man. This was the least of his sins.

          Riding in the back of his Jaguar, Mycroft debated with himself briefly, but ended up making the call that he had known all along was inevitable. It was nearly eleven, but Molly answered right away. “’Croft! Are you home?”

          “Just landed a short time ago.”

          “Are you—are you okay?” He could practically hear her biting her lip, and the image made Mycroft smile despite his dejection. He searched for an answer that would hedge the truth, but was too tired to bother with subterfuge. “Not especially. May I see you, my dear?”

          “You really need to ask?” Molly snorted, “Are you on your way home now? I’ll take a cab.”

          “It’s far too late, I’ll send a car for you.”

          “You spoil me,” Molly said softly, “I can easily take a cab.”

          “You’re precious to me,” Mycroft countered, “I want to be assured you arrive safely.” He was texting on his work phone as they spoke. “There will be a car on the way to you in ten minutes. Nigel will be driving.”

          “Just time to throw a few things in a bag,” Molly said breathlessly, and he pictured her already hurrying through the flat.

          “I’ll let you go then, my dear, so you have sufficient time to pack what you need.” They should talk about her keeping some things at his home when the timing was right, he considered. No need for her to always be lugging a bag with her each time she chose to stay overnight.

          Despite his wish to wait for her, Mycroft’s head was proving too painful and cumbersome, and before Molly arrived he had taken a shower and then turned on the steam feature and sat on the bench in the double-sized, glass enclosed marble shower room. Lost in his own thougthts, Mycroft was actually surprised when Molly opened the bathroom door and called his name softly.

          “Shall I join you?”

          “If you wish.” Mycroft kept his eyes closed, “I warn you, my dear, I have one of my migraines and I am unable to engage in leisure activities.”

          “Idiot,” he thought he heard, and his lips turned up despite himself. A few minutes later Molly opened the door and entered the enclosure, naked and with her hair pinned up. She was carrying a glass of water and a small green bottle. Her kiss was sweetly lingering, and he wished he had thought to brush his teeth. No doubt his breath smelled foul.

          Molly’s brown eyes were tender as she regarded him, “My poor Mycroft, you look pale and pinched and absolutely deflated. Here, drink this water, you need to keep hydrated if your head is hurting.” Passing him the glass she stood over him like his old nanny until he drained the glass. “Good. Now, turn a bit to the side, there. I’m going to massage your neck.”

          The sharp scent of eucalyptus filled the hot steam room and he breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the invigorating aroma. His second deep breath released tension in the middle of his back, and his spine popped. Molly’s hands, slick with oil, found the back of his neck, and began massaging, too strong and forceful and then after a few minutes, perfectly wonderful as his tension began to lessen.

          Her skillful hands worked his neck, the back of his head, up his scalp, behind his ears…back down his neck, to his shoulders, which she tsked and termed hard as wood. A long time later, feeling loose and blissfully relaxed, Mycroft allowed her to help him stand and stood quiescent as she toweled him off. His lack of control should have left him feeling shamed, but all he could muster was a mild embarrassment that she had tenderly cupped his flaccid penis and dangling testicles in her towel-clad hand and dried him.

          “Don’t bother with pyjamas,” Molly instructed, “just get in bed.” She held back the covers and he climbed in and lay down, sighing when his head landed on his cool, soft pillow. “Be right back,” Molly said, and in a few minutes she was back, clad in a soft nightshirt, with her damp hair loose. “Take this,” a pill was pressed into his palm and a fresh glass of water appeared in front of him as if by magic. Obediently he swallowed the pill and let Molly’s hands urge him back down, pull the covers over him.

          “I’m just going to leave a note for Valentine regarding breakfast,” Molly whispered, turning out the lights, “I’ll be right back. Go to sleep, sweetheart.” She kissed his temple and turned to leave, but he caught her hand and tugged her back. “What is it?”

          “I love you, Molly.” It seemed terribly important that she know that. It was inadequate yet at the same time said all that he wanted to impart.

          “I love you, Mycroft, so much. Sleep now. I’ll be with you.”

 

******

 

          Being woken at any time by a text wasn’t a new sensation for Althea, in fact it was business as usual. Blinking sleep out of her eyes, she reached for her mobile—it was her personal phone, not the work one—and checked the display. “Molly, what’s wrong?”

          “I’m _so_ sorry to call this late, but it’s important.” Molly sounded genuinely apologetic, but there was no stuttering, or lengthy excuses. “Your boss just got back from the Island—“ Althea was impressed at Molly’s circumspection “—and he’s knackered. I just got him settled, and I hope a full night of sleep will do the trick.” A pause, a deep breath, “I’m turning off both his mobiles and warning you now that at the very least the Queen herself had better be in danger if anyone dare disturb him before eight in the morning.”

          “Crikey,” Althea blurted, impressed. “Keep him in bed, Hooper, I’ve got the rest of the world under control for the next eight hours. If he’s still under the weather in the morning, let me know and I’ll clear his schedule.”

          “You’re a good woman, Althea.”

          “You too, Molly.”

 

******

 

          Having heard the faint squeak of the front door hinges, John sat up in bed just as his mobile lit up. Sherlock was sending a text from the foot of the stairs so as not to further alarm him. Careful not to jostle the bed too much, John slipped out of the room and met his boyfriend at the head of the stairs.

          A long, tight hug eased some of the tension in Sherlock’s tall frame, and John stood on tiptoe to press a kiss over each eyelid. Sherlock shuddered and clutched John tightly, “Why do I always feel this way when I leave her there?”

          “I’m sorry, love.” John urged Sherlock to rest his head on his shoulder, and they stood for a minute in the darkness of their sitting room, holding one another. “We’ll talk about it in the morning, yeah? Why don’t you come to bed—but be quiet, because our daughter wouldn’t stop crying until I let her sleep with me.”

          Sherlock laughed a little, and kissed John, “Let me shower first, and then I’ll join you.”

          “Make it quick, eh? Six will come soon enough. I’ll put your pyjamas on the sink for you.”

          Following the fastest shower he’d ever accomplished, Sherlock gave his teeth a cursory brushing, drank a glass of water and stole softly upstairs to their bedroom. The soft radiance of the moon bathed John’s ash-blonde hair and Rosie’s guinea gold curls in pewter light, and stole the shadows from the night. Sherlock slid into the bed, curling on his side, as Rosie’s small form was sprawled akimbo, taking up most of the middle.

          The two men shared a smile over her sleeping form, and Sherlock caught John’s hand in his; they fell asleep that way, the small family curled in protection around their tiny nucleus.

 

******

 

 

TO: [jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk](mailto:jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk)

FROM: [h_watson75@privatemail.co.uk](mailto:h_watson75@privatemail.co.uk)

SUBJECT: Last Night

John you weren’t half telling the truth, were you? Althea is one posh bird, but dishy in the extreme! I’m almost mad at you for introducing me to her…I just wanted a quick shag, not romance. But I liked her. I mean, really, genuinely liked her and now I want to see her again. I don’t know if I’m ready for a relationship!

I set up a personal email account, as you can see. Probably shouldn’t use the work email to talk about one night stands, much less discuss someone who works for the Ice Queen. I do NOT see what Molly sees in him. Sherlock I sort of get—the two of you just make sense, and at least he can be a bit playful and childish at times. Her Majesty just seems like a proper knob to me.

I meant to ask—was Mrs. Hudson’s date a man or a woman? I thought I heard her name was Ruby? But then I swear she—he—she? left the seat up in the loo. Didn’t know Mrs. H swung that way!

Thanks again for inviting me John, seriously. I had a great time and it was good to see you so happy. Can you imagine Dad’s face if he knew we were both gay? Oh, sorry, that’s right, you’re not gay. Just shagging a bloke XD

I joke, but it really is brilliant to see you so happy. Warms the cockles of my mean little heart.

Let’s have lunch soon, okay? You and me and my beautiful niece. The boyfriend too, if he deigns to eat that day.

Harry

 

TO: [h_watson75@privatemail.co.uk](mailto:h_watson75@privatemail.co.uk)

FROM: [jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk](mailto:jhwatson72@johnsblog.co.uk)

SUBJECT: RE: Last Night

Harry,

Maybe you’re ready for romance? You’ve really seemed happy these last few years and I think you deserve to share that happiness with someone. Listen to me, therapy is turning me to mush. Seriously though, talk to your sponsor—if they think you are ready for a relationship, you should pursue it.

Lunch sounds great, just the three of us, unless I can convince Sherlock to eat. He’s gotten better, but lately he has started to grumble about getting fat. Ha!

Rudy is the name of Mrs. Hudson’s date, he’s Sherlock and Mycroft’s uncle on their mother’s side, Mrs. Holmes younger brother. We support his life choices. I’m not sure if Mrs. H knows and is far more broad minded than I thought, or if she hasn’t copped to it.

Dad can fuck off as far as I’m concerned. He was shite as a father while he was alive and he doesn’t get a say in my life now. Yours either, sis, seriously. He was toxic.

Love, John

Attachment: rosieatswimclass.jpeg

 

******

 

          “These are quite nice,” Martha said, admiring Rudy’s breasts. “They look absolutely real when you’re dressed!” She gave the left breast a squeeze, “Firm.”

          Rudy laughed, propping his head on one arm as he lay in her bed. He watched as she stood in front of the mirror, holding the beautifully crafted breasts up in front of her. “Perhaps too firm at my age, but who cares?”

          Martha put them down and joined him in bed, “I was always sad at how small mine were, when I was young. But it turned out to be a blessing as I got older—less to sag.”

          “I’d say they were perfectly lovely and just the right size,” Rudy assured her, palming her chest and giving her a flirtatious smile from those sky blue eyes. “Not a patch on me. The real thing is always better.”

          At sixty-one he was not exactly a spring chicken, and more than once a day wasn’t going to happen, but he more than made up for it with skill, vigor and a good deal of cuddling. Cuddling was grand at any age, Martha thought happily, letting him draw her into his arms.

 

******

 

TO: [akjones@gov.uk.gov](mailto:akjones@gov.uk.gov)

FROM: [mmcholmes@gov.uk.gov](mailto:mmcholmes@gov.uk.gov)

SUBJECT: Your raise

 

Expect a significant pay increase in your next wage statement.

Thank you for arranging to clear my schedule last Friday. Do not do it again.

At least not in this decade.

 

******

 

          “Darling? Are you ready?” Molly called from the hallway, her voice raised inquiringly. Mycroft shut down his laptop and locked it in the desk drawer, then joined her. She was wearing a fetching sundress and sandals, with a loosely knit cardigan over her shoulders. Mycroft felt woefully underdressed and juvenile in his leather brogues, jeans, long-sleeved cotton top and the flat tweed cap and sunglasses he insisted on wearing as an added element of disguise. Not that anyone would suspect the Ice Man of dressing so casually.

          “Ready,” Mycroft assured her, struggling not to sound gloomy. Molly had asked him to accompany her to lunch—an unscheduled, unplanned lunch—and then perhaps the cinema. The spontaneity of the act, the formlessness of the plans, the prospect of crowds, of noise, of _people_ …he was steeled for an awful time.

          Then he looked at Molly’s happy, hopeful face, and he thought about how tenderly she had cared for him on his return from Sherrinford. All the big and little ways she had accommodated her life to suit his tastes, to fit into his likes…the least he could do was enjoy this outing.

          And it _was_ a beautiful day.

          Leaving the house hand in hand, Mycroft smiled at his girlfriend’s innocent anticipation of pleasure and surreptitiously slipped his free hand in his other pocket. Fingering the ring box he wondered if today was perhaps the perfect day…


End file.
